


An Angel of Death is Still an Angel

by Quickil



Series: Of Blades and Parchment [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: AU, But only a bit, But only if you squint, Graphic Description, M/M, Pre-Slash, This could probably be read as friendship if you slightly ignore maybe three paragraphs, You should be fine if you arent too squeamish, bookseller!Malik, character injury, non-assassin!Malik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quickil/pseuds/Quickil
Summary: Malik comes across an injured assassin and decides to help them against his better judgment.AU where Malik is not an assassin and meets Altaïr.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Series: Of Blades and Parchment [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082051
Comments: 16
Kudos: 184





	An Angel of Death is Still an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy hopefully this isn't too OOC. I havent tried writing these two before and it's been awhile since I've played the first game.

The dirty streets of Jerusalem were normally bustling with life, but at the current moment, they were nearly empty. The bell rang in the distance, alerting the populace that something had happened…something bad.

The streets had quickly become quiet. The townspeople rushed to their houses and hid, praying for the terror to end. The less fortunate beggars hid themselves away as best they could in the alleys. The only ones in the open seemed to be the guards and the few people that were still making their way to safety.

Malik hurried along, clutching some scrolls tightly under his arm. He needed to get back to his shop, and fast. The clang of the bell once again reached the bookseller's ears, reaffirming his need to get indoors. 

He could hear shuffling and pounding footsteps on the rooftops above as the guards searched the town, commands drifting on the wind from above.

"Find the Assassin!"

A group of guards pushed their way past Malik, sending his scrolls to the ground. 

"Khara!" He quickly bent down, trying his best to gather the scrolls back up using his only arm. 

_An Angel of Death is in the city? That would explain the bell_. He briefly wondered who had met their fate at the end of the blade. They must have been important judging by the amount of guards patrolling. 

After a slight struggle, Malik got to his feet and continued on his way albeit a bit slower. If this was simply the work of a Death Angel then he likely had no reason to fear as long as he stayed out of it's way. 

He prided himself on having a better understanding than the general populace when it came to the Death Angels. Malik had once known a man by the name of Amir who claimed to have grown up near their fortress. Due to the close proximity, Amir had managed to learn a thing or two about them, and had reassured Malik that they did not just strike randomly. He would have nothing to fear as long as he didnt put himself into a precarious situation.

That's not to say that Malik wasn't still in a rush when he saw a blur of white and red in the corner of his eye accompanied by a dull thud. A chorus of dismayed exclamations came from the rooftops as the guards searched for their apparently missing quarry.

Malik turned his head down one of the alleys, where a cart full of hay was propped against a wall. To his disbelief, a man clad in white slowly extracted himself out of the hay. The man stumbled to his feet, leaning heavily on his left leg. An arrow was sticking out of his shoulder, and Malik realized that the white robes were also red with blood. Though the man's face was obscured by a hood, Malik could see a dribble of scarlet coming from somewhere beneath, dripping slowly from his chin to the ground. 

The hooded man had noticed his presence, and stood facing him, hand on the hilt of a sword that Malik hadn't noticed before. Now that he was actually looking a bit closer, he recognized the red sash that covered the man's waist. The hood was unmistakable. 

Face to face with an assassin, Malik had found himself in the exact kind of precarious situation he was trying to avoid.

The assassin looked him up and down, seemingly sizing him up. The two stared at one another, waiting to see who would make the first move. 

The silence was broken when the man stumbled, taking his hand off the hilt of his sword to steady himself against the wall with a small sound. One of his hands had been clutching a wound on his side, and left a red smear. 

"...You are hurt…" Malik could scarcely believe he had uttered the words.

The assassin made little indication that he had heard Malik. His hand left the wall to press against his side once again. The man rather replaced it with his shoulder as he leaned against the stone. Blood dripped steadily into the dust.

At this point, Malik had a decision to make. He did his best to eye the wounds from afar. The chances that the assassin would be able to get to safety in his current state were slim, and if he went much longer without aid, the man would most likely die.

Malik looked at his scrolls then back at the man before slowly setting them down against the adjacent wall. The assassin tracked his movement, never taking his eyes away from him. It reminded Malik of a cornered animal, injured but vicious, and ready to attack if it felt that it needed to. 

He took a few careful steps closer, keeping his hand raised placatingly. The assassin had his hand on the hilt of his sword again, and looked like he was prepared to fight, though Malik doubted that he truly was.

"Take a step closer and my blade will be in your throat." The assassin's voice was strong, even though he punctuated the sentence by spitting a glob of blood on the ground.

"You need medical attention, my friend."

"I am not your friend." The assassin hissed.

"While that may be true it doesn't change the fact that I am trying to keep you from dying on the street like a dog." 

It was silent for a few moments, and though Malik couldn't see under the white hood, he could imagine the man's eyes narrowing.

"Why?" The question was asked more like a demand for information. 

"An Angel of Death is still an Angel, is it not? Let me take you back to my shop. I have medical supplies there."

The Angel in question cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, reminding the bookseller of a bird. In the shadows obscuring his face, Malik swore he could see a reflective gold, not unlike that of a cat's eyes in the dark. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. 

The figure huffed at him, hand lowering again from the sword. "What's your name?"

"Malik Al-Sayf." He took this as a good sign and hesitantly stepped forward. 

"How far is it to your shop?" The hooded figure slumped a bit, putting more of his weight against the wall.

“About a ten minute walk I would say.” Malik had closed a majority of the distance between them, reassured by the slightly more passive demeanor of the assassin. 

The man pushed himself off from the brick, stumbling on wobbly legs. When Malik realized he was going to fall, he quickly caught him, only for a blade to shoot out from the assassin’s wrist. Malik flinched away from it, ready for it to strike his throat, but with a soft metal sound it retracted back into its bracer.

Concluding that it was an instinctual reaction, Malik maneuvered himself around the man until he was able to take some of his weight with his arm. A soft growl arose from the Death Angel when his shoulder was jostled, and Malik made a mental note to watch for the arrow. 

The trek back to the shop was difficult. The guards were still patrolling the streets, so Malik and his...acquaintance had been forced to take the back roads to avoid attention. This made the journey longer than it would’ve been initially, and Malik’s worry for the assassin was increasing. 

The bleeding around the arrow wound on his shoulder had slowed (though it hadn’t stopped completely), and the blood around his chin was dry. What mainly worried Malik was the side wound. The injury was still heavily seeping blood, staining his robe red. Over the course of their walk, more and more weight seemed to be put on Malik and the assassin’s feet dragged more. 

"I'm going to need to let you go so I can open the door," Malik asked when they reached his shop, "Can you stand by yourself?" 

"I'll manage."

The assassin actually did a lot better than Malik thought. Not only did he keep himself upright, but he managed to make it inside the shop before Malik took him by the shoulder again.

He led him past the shelves of dusty books and writing supplies. Malik briefly considered setting him on the counter, but on a second thought, took him past it and into the back rooms that doubled as his living chambers. Taking him to a corner with soft rugs and pillows, he helped the man to the floor. 

"Try to stay still while I retrieve the supplies." The only response was a nod.

When Malik returned with the bandages and thread, the assassin was starting to drift off. Hesitant to do so, but knowing it was necessary, he shook the figure. 

"You can't pass out, you have to stay awake."

The man groaned and shook his head from side to side with effort. 

"You're going to need to take your robe off so I can get to your side wound." Malik felt as if he had asked something taboo. The Death Angels never took their robes off or revealed their face. He had always considered them faceless, nameless. They existed only to carry out their work, and existing as a faceless ghost insured their safety.

The assassin seemed to stall for a minute, and Malik couldn't blame him. He was asking for an astounding amount of trust from a stranger, but it was necessary if this man were to survive. 

Finally making a decision, he pulled down his hood. Seeing the man’s face Malik was overcome with a sense of how human the Angels really were. If the man were to go walking down the street without his robes, he would’ve looked like any other civilian in Jerusalem. 

The assassin’s lips were drawn back into a frown, accented by a long scar that ran down across the right side. His skin (paler than Malik’s, though he was still clearly of Arabic descent) was broken across a cheek by a shallow cut. The cut and the blood trails going down to his chin had long since dried. His short brown hair was unkempt from long hours under the hood, and was slightly damp with sweat. 

The most captivating part of the man’s face were his eyes. They were golden like that of the eagles that often circled over the city. They held something inhuman in them, capturing Malik's gaze with not an ounce of fear but a simple challenge. It felt as though those eyes could see every sin his soul carried.

He swallowed hard and tore his attention away from them to focus on the task at hand. Malik did his best to help the assassin out of the robe, but he was limited with his single limb. Some of the blood from the side wound had coagulated, and the fabric stuck to the red skin around it. Despite the pain that removing the robes must have caused, the man’s only reaction was a wince.

Malik quickly got to work, washing the wound and skin around it clean with a damp cloth. He did so in silence at first, but upon realizing that his patient was seemingly about to pass out again, he decided it would be best if he kept him talking. 

“So is there a name you go by, or should I just call you ‘Bloody Hooded Man’?”

The assassin just watched him, as if he were contemplating something. Malik wasn’t expecting to get a response by the time he finally replied.

“Altaïr.”

The bookseller was surprised at the reply. “The Flying One?” 

Altaïr’s lip twitched. “I suppose I’ve been known to ‘fly’.”

Malik, having finished washing the area around the wound, threaded a needle. "This is going to hurt, but you will need to stay still."

"If you think that this is my first time with a needle you are sorely mistaken." He snorted.

The bookseller shrugged and began stitching the wound. The assassin barely flinched when the needle made contact with the skin. They sat awkwardly until the silence got the best of Malik.

"Did you manage to accomplish… whatever it was you were trying to do?" He wasn't sure how to ask the question. There was no telling when he would cross the line. 

"I did. The guards nearly caught me."

"I can see that."

Malik could still feel Altaïr's eyes on him as he worked. After a moment of what felt like intense scrutiny, the silence was broken again.

"You are a strange one, bookseller."

"How so?" Malik finished up the stitching and cut the thread. 

Altaïr raised an eyebrow at him as he looked up. “Do you know anyone else that _wouldn’t_ turn in a known killer, let alone willingly lead them back to their place of residence and help them?”

Well when he put it like that… “I suppose not, no.”

Altaïr nodded his head slightly. “I do not yet know if that makes you very brave or very foolish.”

That was a thinly veiled threat if Malik had ever heard one, but the assassin didn’t move. Altaïr simply sat and stared at Malik the same way he had for the past fifteen minutes or so, and when Malik met his eyes, there was no aggression. There were just pools of golden honey, drowning Malik along with all of the secrets they carried and the undeniably horrific things that they had seen. He was sure that Altaïr had many stories to tell, though he did not believe he would be the one to hear them as he so desperately wished. 

“Perhaps it’s both.” He responded, coming back from his thoughts. Altaïr looked away for what felt like the first time since they had met. “Now let me get a look at your shoulder.”

Altaïr repositioned himself so that Malik could get a closer look at the arrow. He frowned at the fabric of the shirt blocking his view. He would need to get it off in order to treat the wound. 

“I’m going to break the shaft of the arrow off, but I’ll need to dig the arrowhead out afterwards. Do you think you will be able to get out of that shirt once I break it?”

The assassin muttered an affirmative as Malik snapped the wood of the shaft. He tried to help Altaïr out of the shirt as best he could, but found it difficult with his single arm. Once the shoulder was bare, Malik was able to better observe the wound. It was still bleeding sluggishly, but Altaïr’s side had been worse by far. 

“This will probably hurt more than the stitching, but it’s imperative that I get the arrowhead out.”

“Get it over with then.”

Malik had to pry around the skin of the wound to wiggle the arrowhead upwards before he could remove it. Altaïr’s body was tensed throughout the ordeal, most likely making the pain worse than it would’ve been. 

Once the arrowhead was out, he began to stitch the wound like before. This time it was Altaïr who broke the silence. “How do you know so many medical techniques if you are not a doctor? I would think you used to be before you lost your arm but you seem to be managing just fine without it.”

Malik flinched a bit at the mention of his missing arm. Whether or not the assassin noticed he was unsure. “My younger brother was a doctor.”

“Was?”

Malik wished that the assassin would stop talking. “A few years back we ran into some bandits while traveling back from Acre. I lost my arm, and Kadar lost his life.”

Altaïr didn’t pry into that particular subject, much to Malik’s relief. “It seems like he was a good teacher.”

The rest of the time that Malik stitched was spent in silence. He inspected the scratch on Altaïr’s face afterwards and decided it didn’t need stitching. Satisfied with his work, he grabbed the bandages and began wrapping the wounds. He struggled with them, trying to use his knee to help guide them along until Altaïr decided to attempt to help. It went much faster once there were two hands rather than one.

Malik stood back and admired his handy work. For the first time, he paid closer attention to the skin of the man in front of him. His chest was littered with numerous other scars, some older and some new. They ranged from various sizes and degrees of injury, telling Malik more about Altaïr’s lifestyle than the assassin would probably tell him himself. Altaïr was definitely not new at his job. 

“You should get some rest. We can change the bandages in the morning.” 

Malik went back to the front of the building to organize some books in the shop for a few hours. By the time he was done it was already dark, and he retreated back into his living quarters to sleep. He checked on Altaïr as he passed, satisfied to find him asleep and seemingly none of the stitches torn.

  
  


~~~

  
  
  


When morning came around, Malik woke with the intention of checking on Altaïr’s wounds and rewrapping his bandages. This plan was thrown out the window when he discovered that Altaïr was no longer present. 

In his place were the scrolls Malik had left against the alley wall the day before, barely worse for wear. Beside them was a single pristine eagle feather.

Malik crouched down and ran his finger along the feather. It was soft and elegant with brown stripes marking its tawny surface. A vision of piercing gold eyes like that of an eagle flashed in his mind's eye.

Hadn’t Amir said before that the eagles were the Death Angels’ animal?

Altaïr hadn’t stayed to say goodbye, but it seemed that he had left Malik a gift. He retrieved the feather from the ground, putting it in a small jar on his desk. He knew it was ill-advised, but he hoped to see Altaïr again, and possibly under better circumstances. 

_‘I do not yet know if that makes you very brave or very foolish.’_

Malik shook his head and chuckled, a smile spreading across his face for the first time in what felt like ages. _Definitely foolish_.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me if you want me too continue writing this AU in the future. I have a couple of ideas that I could possibly put into fruition if people enjoy it!


End file.
